


you have opened the door to darkness, little man

by Mercury



Category: Sleuth (1972)
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Games, Gen, Swearing, intense mutual dislike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury/pseuds/Mercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milo and Andrew have a chat and a drink after Milo regains consciousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you have opened the door to darkness, little man

**Author's Note:**

> i forgot how much i love this movie  
> andrew's a dick

Andrew first thinks he will move Tindle from where he had fallen, sprawled on the stairs looking for all the world like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child- but Andrew is not as young as he once was, and Tindle is heavier than he looks. Andrew instead begins cleaning up the evidence of the brief ersatz sacking. He grimaces at the strewn pages of his manuscript, and settles for gathering them in the order he finds them. He can hire people for this sort of thing.

It isn't long before the room looks much as it did when Tindle arrived, minus an ugly puzzle-jug and one old photograph. He hangs another to cover the bullet hole. Andrew then pours two glasses of brandy, settles into his armchair with a magazine, and waits.

Tindle's first sign of life is a great, shuddering gasp. Andrew turns his head to see the other man convulse, like a fish removed from water, before raising his shaking hands to his head and pulling off the mask. His face is ashen and shining with sweat, and he lies motionless for almost a minute, eyes on the floor.

“Wh- Where am I?” he croaks.

“Rise and shine, Milo!” Andrew calls. He stands up and walks to the stairs, brandy in hand. “Here.” He grasps Tindles arm- the man flinches, but does not force him away- and helps him to his feet. “Have a drink. It'll calm the nerves.”

Tindle wordlessly accepts the glass and downs it in one before stumbling past him. He almost trips on the ends of his boots, but steadies himself before collapsing onto the sofa. Andrew follows him, smiling, and retakes his seat. “Did you enjoy your nap?”

“I'm alive,” Tindle says, as much a question as a statement.

Andrew chuckles. “Of course you're alive. You don't really take me for a murderer, do you, Milo? I'm a sportsman, not a sadist.”

“You- _bastard_ -” Tindle spits, chest heaving.

“Care for another brandy?” Andrew asks lightly. Tindle says nothing, but nudges the glass forward. Andrew fills it. “Come now, Milo, don't be so glum. You've just been snatched from the brink of total destruction, after all! Near death experiences don't come often. Savor it.”

Tindle does not look at Andrew. His head wobbles and his hands tremble as he raises the glass to his lips.

Andrew eyes him expectantly. “Well? Anything to share now that you're back among the living? Has this second chance given you any new lease on life?”

Tindle sets the glass down roughly and says in a hoarse, stilted whisper, “You _shot_ me. How- What did you...?”

“It was a blank,” Andrew replies, raising the gun cheerily. Tindle recoils. Andrew is put in mind of a cockroach shrinking from the sun. “Me and my games, remember? I had you fooled, though, didn't I?”

Tindle laughs a choked, throaty laugh, a coughing sort of laugh. “You certainly did. You certainly fucking did have me _fucking_ fooled.”

Andrew purses his lips. “There's no need for such vulgarity here, Milo.”

Tindle raises his head and stares at Andrew. “You held a gun- a gun I saw you fire twice- against my head and now you're telling me about _vulgarity_? For Christ's sake, can you pull your head out of your arse and act like a normal fucking person for once, or is that not _noble_ enough for the great Andrew Wyke?”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Calm down, boy, you're alive. I've _told_ you, it was a joke. You've already made quite the fool of yourself, quavering in those oversized shoes, so why don't you just accept my peace offering and be done with it?” He raises the decanter temptingly. Andrew shoves the glass towards him.

“Marguerite. Was that also part of the joke? Are you going to let me marry her, or not?”

“Of course you can marry her, Milo,” Andrew says as he refills Tindle's glass. “I've told you already; I have no affection for her. Take her, do what you want with her. I really couldn't care less.”

Tindle squints at him. “If that's right, then what the _fuck_ was all that with the gun and- and you not wanting your wife off with a-” He pauses, thinking, then spits, “a culling, blue-eyed wop?”

Andrew strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I admit that I couldn't stand to simply _give_ her to you. Much as I detest Marguerite, I have a certain image to maintain, and losing one's wife to a European hairdresser isn't good for a man's reputation. I couldn't just let you have her, not without getting something in return.”

“And what was that?” Tindle breathes. “It's alright that Marguerite goes off with another man so long as you try to kill him first?”

“Heaven's _sake_ , Milo, I didn't try to _kill_ you! 'Try' implies I have failed, and I haven't failed in the slightest- I wanted you to think I would kill you, and I succeeded rather spectacularly.” Andrew takes a sip of brandy. “All it was was a test, to see what sort of a man you truly are when pressed back to the wall. I must admit, I wasn't especially impressed by your performance, but you are certainly good enough for Marguerite.”

“And the jewels?” Tindle asks.

Andrew smiles sympathetically. “The jewels are mine, Milo. As I said, they were always mine. You will leave them when you change back into your own clothes and head off to your cottage.”

“You said it yourself, though,” Tindle says quietly. “I can't- I can't afford to take care of Marguerite like you do, not with my own money.” His voice cracks as he speaks. “There's nothing I can do, is there?”

Andrew walks to him and claps him on the back. “I'm not one who hands out gifts, Milo. I give prizes. Marguerite was a consolation. A trophy befitting of your execution. Perhaps, if you would like to engage me another time, I could wager the jewels-?”

“Fuck you,” Tindle mutters, drawing away from Andrew's touch.

“Mhm.” Andrew sniffs. “Sleep on it, then? You know where to find me.”

“Where are my clothes?” Tindle demands. You will change into them, leaving the jewels and those lovely garments you are currently wearing on my bed. I would not advise trying to steal anything.”

Tindle stands up, swaying slightly, and stumbles as he mounts the stairs. He swears under his breath and tears off his boots, leaving them by the bannister before making his way up. Andrew frowns and retrieves them, clicking his tongue.

Tindle is not long in changing, and reemerges looking surprisingly neat. His mouth twitches, and he nods curtly at Andrew before weaving past him toward the exit.

“Remeber, Milo, I'm always up for a rematch!” Andrew calls after him, chuckling. Tindle slams the door as he leaves.


End file.
